There is a smell that stays with you. Warm wood, a little smoky, faintly sweet. Angela knows it. She is standing behind a folding table, and in front of her is a cedar-style family sign she burned herself — clean lines, careful shading, hours of quiet work pressed into the grain. Beside it sits a small white tag. Blank. That blank tag is where this whole conversation begins. The sign did not arrive on that table easily. It came through practice runs that went wrong, through late evenings when the house was quiet and the burning tip moved slowly across the wood. It came through a season of reinvention — the kind where you are not just learning a craft, you are deciding who you are becoming and what your time is actually worth. So the question the blank tag seems to ask is: how much? But that is actually the second question. The first one is quieter and harder. Who is this piece for? Who would pick it up, feel the texture, read the name burned into the wood, and think — yes, this is exactly what I needed? Think of the difference between pricing from fear and pricing from purpose. Fear says: just put something low so nobody walks away. Purpose says: this piece carries something real, and the right person will recognize that. Before Angela writes a number on that tag, she has to find that person first.